


The Look of the Season

by quirkysubject



Series: For The Day I Take Your Hand [2]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: (A Hint Of) Pining, Art History, Art student Freddie, Banter, Boys Being Girls, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Photographs, Platonic Touching, Pre-Slash, Shippy Gen, late 60s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: 1969. Roger helps Freddie with a drawing assignment. Freddie gets flustered.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Series: For The Day I Take Your Hand [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707946
Comments: 46
Kudos: 75





	The Look of the Season

**Author's Note:**

> This story was sort of inspired by two fics:
> 
> [Life’s Eternal Rhyme](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667558) by roggietaylor. There’s a brief hair-braiding scene in chapter 3 and somehow it just wouldn’t leave my head.
> 
> [(broad)casting your limelight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23121859) by sweetestsight, in which Brian does ASMR (which is such a brilliant idea). It led me to discover hair-play based ASMR vids, which I didn’t know I needed in my life until now.
> 
> Thanks go to: [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally) for betaing, [Toinette93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toinette93/pseuds/Toinette93) for encouragement and [guiltypleasurefandomface](https://guiltypleasurefandomface.tumblr.com/) for kindly explaining to me that Halloween parties were not a thing in late 60s Britain.
> 
>   
> Moodboard by [painkiller80](https://painkiller80.tumblr.com/post/615214559724224512/another-request-from-quirkysubject-that-i-loved)

"Don't move."

Roger rolls his eyes but moves his arm back into its initial position. "A _quick_ sketch you said."

His voice is all complaint, but Freddie knows he likes being used as a model. He's such a vain one. He especially enjoys it when it means he can keep doing whatever he is doing anyway, in this case reading a music magazine while lounging in an improbably contorted-yet-relaxed looking position on the sofa: one leg on the backrest, head half-hanging off a cushion.

Well, as far as Freddie is concerned, he doesn’t care what Roger does as long as he keeps his left arm still. The elbow has got to stay in _that_ position, at _that_ angle just a minute longer.

Freddie's got the outline down on paper, but the shading is more difficult, that subtle transition where the light falling in from the window gradually turns to shadow over the curve of Roger’s forearm.

A sigh of discontent comes from the sofa. "My nose is itchy."

"Oh no", Freddie says, slightly distracted by a line that has gone a little wobbly. He erases it and carefully redraws it. "If only you had another hand or something."

Roger throws him an annoyed look and waves the magazine about. Really, he's just being difficult. There's absolutely no reason why he can't just put that aside for a moment and... but then, Roger is already rubbing his nose awkwardly with the well-thumbed pages of Melody Maker. His bare foot is tapping against the backrest rest. Getting restless. Freddie better get this finished. Lying still is not Roger's strong suit.

He puts some more gentle strokes down on the paper and decides that it's not going to be any better. "Done", he declares and Roger immediately throws the magazine away and stretches both arms over his head.

Really now. He's acting like Freddie had him sitting in a strict pose for hours when all he’d been asked to do was not move his arm for five minutes.

Alright, maybe ten.

Freddie eyes his work critically. It looks a little dull. Maybe he should add a contrast colour, like a nice deep red to set off the part where the tendrils of hair start flowing over pale skin.

"I'm not sure I've got the right arms for a mermaid anyway", Roger remarks.

"It's a Siren.” Freddie puts the crayon away with a sigh. It's no use. He's got to get started on the hair in earnest. It's a bother, getting all the textures and reflections right, but needs must. Can't have a Siren with a shaved head now, can he?  
(He could actually. And call it modern, daring.)

No. No, this is going to be classical: a dramatic, storm-swept figure, weeping her enthralling sighs out into the night. He won't compromise that just because he's too lazy to draw her hair properly.

"Quite a masculine Siren then, hm?" There’s a silly little grin on Roger’s face as he flexes his bare arms.

Freddie sucks his lips between his teeth to hide his smile. Roger is always acting like he's a bodybuilder when in fact he is quite slight. Now he's got very nice, toned arms, but all it takes is a bit of slimming down and they're just right for an - admittedly fit - Siren. "If it's good enough for Michelangelo it's good enough for me."

"Michelangelo?"

Freddie hums as he outlines a braid snaking down the side of the figure's head. "Haven't you ever taken a closer look at his ladies?"

Roger shrugs. "I might have.” He thinks for a moment, then his eyes light up. “Is he the one with the enormous arses?”

Freddie grins. "No, you’re thinking of Rubens, you naughty thing." He thinks about getting up and looking for the Sistine Chapel painting in his grotesquely big pile of reference books and prints on his dresser, but he doesn't want to break the flow. Also, he's not quite sure it's even in there. "I'll get you a copy next time I'm in the library. But if you like women who look like they can knock you out flat, Michelangelo is your man."

"Hmm, not exactly... although there was this girl in my first-year dentistry class. Tiny thing, but a mean left hook. Saw her take out a drunk idiot when we were all out together after the exams."

Freddie knows exactly how the story is going to end. But of course, he still asks the inevitable question. "Did you go out with her?"

Roger smiles that smile, the one that says "aren't I a lucky bastard" that always appears on his face when he thinks about his former or current girlfriends. "Of course. How could I not date her after that?"

Freddie raises one eyebrow. "A girlfriend _and_ a bodyguard, how convenient for a future rock star."

"'xactly. Also..." His grin turns a bit crooked. "Her left was talented in many ways."

Freddie's face becomes a little warm, the way it always does when Roger talks about his conquests. He has such an easy way of implying things, not quite bragging - alright, sometimes outright bragging - but casually making it very clear that he and sex are a match made in heaven and he's not shy about letting the world now.

Freddie turns his attention back to his project. He bends down low over the paper, trying to make the curls spreading out from one of the Siren’s braids look a bit more natural. "That's a good thing for an aspiring dentist", he mumbles. Roger chortles and Freddie quietly cherishes it. It always lights a warm glow in his chest when he makes him laugh like that.

"Oh yes, that's _exactly_ what I was talking about." Roger makes a face at him.

Freddie holds out the drawing at arm’s length and squints at it. He can't spot any obvious mistakes but somehow it just doesn't look right. He puts it down with a huff, half wondering whether he should bum a fag off Roger. He doesn’t like the taste of it, but there’s something about holding a cigarette between his fingers that makes his artistic frustrations more bearable.

Roger’s in a good mood, having been allowed to boast about his prowess. Maybe he'll even roll one up for Freddie. He likes that. It's not that he can't do it himself, but there's something about watching Roger go about these ritualized movements that is deeply satisfying to watch. And somehow they always taste a little better.

Maybe if Freddie teases Roger about his lack of dexterity and how it's a good thing he never made it past his first year of dentistry school...

"Can I see?" Roger's already moving, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa and pushing himself up.

"Ach." Freddie sits back and rubs his neck, which is sore from sitting hunched over for so long. "It's a load of rubbish. I'll have to start all over again."

Roger leans over him to pick the drawing up. "Didn't you say you have to hand it in tomorrow?"

Freddie shrugs. It wouldn't be the first time he finished something at 4.30 in the morning, running on fumes and still somehow passing. He tries not to be too obvious as he observes Roger's reaction to the drawing.

"Nice left elbow", Roger says with an approving nod.

Freddie slaps him in the ribs with the back of his hand, making him yelp. "Give it here, you twat."

But Roger holds the drawing out of reach. “The hair doesn’t look quite right”, he notes, more serious. He taps the problem area with his finger.

“Stop that, you’ll only smudge it.” But he’s right and Freddie knows he’s right. Maybe he should go for a pixie-cut siren after all, save himself the pain.

“Oh, stop fretting.” But Roger does make sure his fingertip doesn’t touch the paper as he points out all the things Freddie did wrong. He enjoys doing that, just like he enjoys the impromptu modelling. Thing is, usually he’s wrong and Freddie can blithely ignore him.

This time, he’s right.

“There, see? Where the strands go into the braid there should be a…” Roger reaches up to his own hair and gestures. “...like a v-shaped pattern. Or something.”

“Yes, thank you, Teasy Weasy”, Freddie grumbles and takes the sheet back. Since when does Roger - who used to cut his own fringe in the haphazard manner of a 6-year old - know anything about hair anyway?

With a sigh, he gets up and ambles over to his stack of references. Surely there’s a picture of a girl with the kind of hair he’s looking for in there? He looks through the clips and books a little half-heartedly. It’s not really worth the effort, is it? But he can picture it in his mind so clearly, he can’t quite let it go just yet.

There’s a muffled curse behind him. When Freddie looks around, Roger’s inspecting the side of his head in the mirror. He gives Freddie an apologetic smile.

“Thought I could do a quick braid so you can see, but it’s difficult to do on my own.”

He turns his head and, yes, there’s the beginning of a lopsided French braid on the side of his head.

“You know how to do that?” Given the state of Roger’s hair on any given day, Freddie wouldn’t have counted hair-styling among his interests. Or talents.

Roger nods a little distractedly as he loosens the braid and fluffs his hair back into its proper messy state. “Used to do it for Clare when she was little. It always calmed her down when…” His fingers hesitate for a moment. “When she was upset or something.”

“Ah.” It’s one of those moments where Freddie thinks maybe Roger wants him to ask about it, to prod at the tiny cracks in the happy facade that Roger’s always wearing like a shield. He never lets on much, but at times like these, the image of two kids hiding in the dark as a storm rages outside flashes up in Freddie’s mind.

“So you can’t?” Roger raises his eyebrows. “Thought it would have been your thing.”

Like that, the moment is past. “Er, no. Kash is very particular about her hair. And I’m not exactly the type for braids, am I?” Freddie gestures at his hair.

“Hmmm…” Roger thinks for a moment, then his eyes light up. “Got your camera here?”

“My… yes, of course, it’s in my backpack.”

Without asking for permission, Roger starts digging through his backpack. Freddie is too intrigued and surprised to object. With a triumphant ‘hah!’ Roger wields the camera and a half-full box of cartridges. He puts them down on a table, then disappears into the bathroom.

“Roger?” Freddie gets up and peers into the hallway. When Roger gets into his “bouncy ball of energy” state, it’s hard to stop him.

His friend returns, a wide grin on his face. “Sit down”, he says, twirling a comb between his fingers. “Teasy Weasy is going to demonstrate the new hot look of the season.”

Freddie does nothing of the sort. “I’m _also_ very particular about my hair”, he says and puts a protective hand up. “Runs in the family.”

“Oh don’t be silly. I do a quick braid, we snap a pic, and then you can finish your drawing. And then”, Roger says as he takes Freddie’s arm and drags him to the sofa, “we can go have a pint.”

“So that’s what this is about?” Freddie eyes Roger suspiciously.

“It’s called a win-win.”

Thing is, Freddie doesn’t even know why he’s so reluctant. Maybe it’s because Roger’s horribly lopsided fringe is still fresh in his memory. But there are no scissors within reach and the worst that can happen is that the braid looks terrible and they wasted half an hour of their time. And his motivation to sit back down at the drawing board is not very high right now.

“Alright then”, he sighs, letting himself plop down dramatically in the middle of the sofa as if he’s somehow doing Roger an enormous favour.

Roger sits down next to him, turned sideways with one leg on the floor, the other folder under him. There’s always something so childlike about him when he gets excited about one of his ‘brilliant plans’.

Roger runs the edge of the comb through Freddie’s hair. It immediately gets stuck, tearing at the roots.

“Careful”, Freddie admonishes with a pained grimace.

“Jesus, Fred, how much product did you put in there?”

Freddie doesn’t answer. For some reason he’s faintly embarrassed by the effort it takes to get his hair to lie down smooth and straight. And once Roger is done with him he’ll have to do it all over again. At least if they do want to make it out to the pub. “You’re one to talk”, Freddie grumbles.

“Okay, let me just…” Roger starts combing through his hair a bit more carefully, rubbing the strands between the fingers of his free hand to get the gel out of it.

“You’ll fluff it up”, Freddie warns, knowing how unruly his hair can get.

“I can’t work with it caked in gel like this.” Roger shakes his head and tuts with the air of a tortured artist about him.

Freddie wants to retort something smart, but then Roger brushes his fingers through a strand again, and with much of the gel gone it’s a much gentler sensation, a soft tugging that prickles over his scalp and steals his words.

Roger stills his hands. “Okay?”

“Yes, fine”, Freddie responds gruffly, realising he’s suddenly gone completely still.

Roger continues to work through his hair like that, combing and tugging and twirling the strands between his fingers. Every touch sends outs a hot-and-cold tingle all over his scalp, down his neck and into his back. Freddie thought he’d get used to the sensation, but the longer this goes on, the more sensitive he seems to become.

What is this? It never feels like this when he brushes his own hair.

Eventually, Roger stops and Freddie immediately misses the sensation.

“You look like a dandelion”, Roger says, amusement clear in his voice as he pats Freddie’s hair lightly.

“I warned you.” Freddie does his best to keep his voice level, but Roger’s gentle touch is making it hard to breathe. It’s like every single hair root is a finely-tuned antenna, registering even the slightest sensation.

“Right.” Roger takes up the comb again and runs it down the side of Freddie’s scalp. This time it glides through. The stiff teeth of the comb are cold and merciless against his skin, so different from Roger’s fingers. Yet somehow it still makes him shiver. “Can you sort of…” Roger pulls the majority of Freddie's hair to one side and bunches it up. “Can you just hold it so it’s not in my way?”

Freddie reaches a hand up like he’s in a trance. He’s not sure what is happening, but he doesn’t want it to end, so he holds his hair out of the way just like Roger is telling him to.

“Alright then, here we go.” There are fingers at his temple, gathering a few fine strands of hair. “Hold still.”

How is he supposed not squirm at that? The whole side of his face is tingling with maddening pleasure. He also realises with barely registered panic that his breath is coming way too fast considering he’s just sitting here.

“Are you alright?” Roger leans forward so he can look at Freddie’s face. God knows what he sees there.

“Sure. Just. Not used to it.”

“Sorry”, Roger says. “I’ll be careful.”

Oh god, that only makes it worse. Every touch is like a caress, every tug so light that there’s not even a hint of discomfort to temper the pleasure. He has no idea what exactly Roger is doing, but he’s got to be doing it on purpose, because no practical touch has any right to feel that good. It’s ridiculous.

Roger huffs out a laugh and Freddie’s senses are so hyperactive he can feel the breath tickle the back of his neck. “You’re almost like a cat. Next thing you’ll start purring.”

“We should get a cat”, Freddie replies automatically. It’s what he always says when the topic comes up. It’s a safe reply, because who knows what else would have come out of his mouth if he attempted actual conversation in his state.

“And feed it beans on toast?” Which is Roger’s standard reply. Only usually he doesn’t say it while his fingers are in Freddie’s hair, doing things that should be illegal by law and custom.

Every single hair on Freddie’s body is standing on edge and - as he’s only too aware - that is a lot of hair. It’s like an electric current is rippling through him, subtly changing with every move of Roger’s fingers. Like droplets of icy water running over sun-parched skin. Occasionally, a finger brushes against Freddie’s ear, which is not a body part he’s ever thought of as capable of intense physical sensation. Turns out he was wrong.

“There.”

“Hm?”

“Did you fucking fall asleep?” Roger flicks his ear and the sting brings Freddie out of it again.

“It took you _ages_!” He takes extra care to sound exasperated. He has no idea what he would have sounded like otherwise.

“Haste makes waste. Wait a sec.” Roger half turns and stretches one arm to reach for something on the desk. Out of the corner of his eye, Freddie can see a document clip being attached to the end of the braid.

Before Freddie can protest the damage that will do to his tips, Roger is shooing him towards the mirror. “What do you think”, he asks and looks almost exactly like a labrador puppy eager for praise. “A little loose on top, but not bad for someone who hasn’t done it in years, eh?”

Freddie looks completely ridiculous. The braid that is winding down the right side of his head looks good enough, but with the rest of his hair open and fluffy, he looks like a deranged itinerant preacher. The only thing missing is a sackcloth robe and a pair of sandals.

Their eyes meet in the mirror and Freddie giggles, a bit embarrassed at how silly he looks. He tries in vain to smooth down his unruly hair. It shouldn’t matter.

Roger has seen him in worse states. He has certainly seen Roger in worse states.

“Come on”, Roger says and takes up the camera. “Let’s get the picture.”

It takes a while until they have found the right angle so the lighting is the same as in the drawing. Freddie puts the developing photo on his desk, right next to his unfinished drawing project. His motivation to sit down and finish it is close to zero.

Roger is standing by the mirror, hands on his hips, observing Freddie and looking exceedingly pleased with himself. Well, if Freddie ever finishes this blasted assignment, he can take at least some of the credit for it.

Freddie reaches for his braid to remove the clip. Some hairs have caught in it, pulling painfully sharp at his scalp. But it is like his skin is primed for those sensations now as another shiver runs through him.

God, why had that felt so good?

“So if we want to make it to the pub…” Roger is looking pointedly at his wristwatch.

“Can you teach me?”

“Hm?”

“The braiding. That way I can…” Hm, it doesn’t really make sense to say ‘do it myself when I need a reference in the future’, does it? Because one, he’s got the photo now and two, Roger said you can’t do it as well on yourself. Freddie shrugs and gives Roger what he hopes is a sly grin. “Help out the ladies.”

“Just to get that straight, when I’ve got a lady over, we usually don’t spend much time braiding her hair.” He crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. “Quite the opposite actually.”

Freddie’s train of thought is derailed by the image of Roger’s calloused hands burrowing themselves in a mass of shiny black curls (it’s usually brunettes for him), dishevelling it thoroughly. The sense memory from earlier returns with a vengeance and Freddie flushes as goosebumps break out all over his body. “Hmm.”

Oh dear, what were they talking about again?

“Also, I thought you’ve got to finish your assignment.”

Freddie gives it a desultory glance. “Matter of half an hour.” Now that’s a lie that’ll cost him dearly when he’s slaving away over it in the early morning hours. “Tell you what”, he says, trying to keep his voice light, “teach me and I’ll pay your first round at the pub.” Not that Freddie can afford it, but some things are worth skipping dinner for.

“Really?” Roger - whose financial situation tends to be just as dismal as Freddie’s - perks up. “Deal!”

Freddie sits down on the sofa again. Before he joins him, Roger takes their mirror off the wall and brings it over, balancing it on the backrest of the sofa and against the wall. “So you can see what I’m doing”, he explains.

It’s a good idea, in theory, but as soon as he gets started - on the other side of Freddie’s head this time, Freddie’s ability to focus vanishes into thin air. This time, there’s not just Roger’s clever fingers, tugging ever so gently at Freddie’s hair, but also his hoarse voice speaking softly so close to his ear, explaining what he’s doing.

Should Freddie feel bad for tricking his friend into providing these delicious pleasures for him? But then, Roger seems to be having fun and it’s not like Freddie’s enjoying it in that way.

“So it’s a bit tricky, holding the two strands in one hand at first without mixing them up”, Roger says. “But if you slot them between your fingers like that”, he holds up his hand so Freddie can see it in the mirror, “it works pretty neat.”

“Right”, Freddie says, proud of his vocal cords performing so well. Roger’s hand brushes against the skin of his neck, gathering a few stray hairs there, and Freddie just wants to melt into a puddle. It’s bliss in its purest form, his whole existence shrinking to those points of contact, while radiant pleasure wells through his body.

There is no place for all the usual doubts and pains and uncertainties and vulgarities that taint him, not while he’s filled with this unsullied, bright ecstasy.

It’s over far too quickly - Roger’s hit his stride now, his rusty skills dusted off, flingers flowing smoothly. But before Freddie can be too disappointed, Roger’s hands are reaching for the crown of his head and he’s getting started on the hair in the middle.

“You look ridiculous with two braids and all that loose hair between them”, he grumbles, although Freddie hasn’t even asked for an explanation. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

“Yes, god forbid anyone look ridiculous”, Freddie whispers faintly. Who knew the back of his skull was even more sensitive than the sides? He would let Roger put pink bows in it for all the cares.

As Roger swiftly works his way down to the back of his neck, Freddie idly wonders if he could get away wearing braids as part of his everyday hairstyle. Roger’s supposed to be teaching him, but if he’s _really_ clumsy, Roger’s patience will run out quickly - if there’s one thing he can count on, it’s that - and then he’ll do it for Freddie every morning. And maybe brush it for him in the evening. His roots would be so sensitive from being in the same position all day...

“There, all done.” Roger puts another clip at the end of the braid and rubs his hands. He looks very pleased as he admires his handiwork.

Freddie looks in the mirror and immediately ducks his head as he breaks out into giggles. He looks outrageous. No way is he ever going to get away with wearing braids. His overlong fringe is falling into his forehead, but everything else is tied back close to his skull. It makes his cheekbones stand out and his nose, his eyes, his teeth, they look even bigger. Which is the absolute last thing he needs.

He reaches back to open his hair up again, but Roger smacks his hand away. “No, no, no, we’re not finished here. You wanted to learn.” He presses the comb into

Freddie’s hand. “My turn.”

Right. Because Freddie had been supposed to watch and listen while Roger was doing those unspeakable things to him.

Roger turns on the sofa and his back is to Freddie. “Best just start with just one braid down the middle, it’s easiest”, he says, betraying depths of knowledge on the subject of hair braiding that Freddie wouldn’t have suspected before today.

Freddie puts the comb aside and gathers Roger’s hair in a loose ponytail. It’s a bit softer and straighter than his own, not being cursed with Freddie’s natural frizz.

Roger sometimes moans about it not having the right texture. For what exactly he doesn’t say.

“Just divide off the top section… yeah, like that, now form three strands, and then…”

“Yes, I know.” Freddie rolls his eyes and tugs a little harder than necessary as he crosses the right strand over the middle. He is not a complete imbecile after all.

Roger makes a strangled noise and coughs, then chuckles.

“What?” A strange feeling trickles through Freddie. He hadn’t even thought of it, but what if Roger experiences the same sensations as Freddie did? Maybe that’s why he was so eager for Freddie to try it?

“Ah, nothing.” Then, after a few seconds have passed, he speaks up again. “It’s just that Jo often grips my hair when she… you know.” Roger sends him a knowing look through the mirror.

Freddie’s hands still. Roger is never what he would call discrete, so Freddie already knows more than he wanted about his roommate’s activities. He really doesn’t need any more mental images to go with it.

Roger scoffs and glares at him. He seems to interpret Freddie’s consternation as offence. “Oh, come on.” He shifts a little uncomfortably. “Just. Be gen-” He cuts himself off with an angry little growl. “For fuck’s sake, just don’t tear at my roots like that, alright?” His voice is turning sharper, a little higher, as it always does when he’s agitated.

Freddie transfers all his hair into one hand and twirls the other in the air as effete as he can. “Gentle as a lamb”, he singsongs.

“Shut up you, and...” Roger grins despite himself, ruining his gruff air. “Just braid my hair like a man, alright.”

He catches Freddie’s eye in the mirror again and they grin at each other.

“Don’t you worry, darling”, Freddie giggles. “This is going to be the butchest braid in the Western Hemisphere.”

“Hmm, I’m sure.”

Freddie does his level best - and it’s not like he lacks basic dexterity - but his end result is a far cry from the tight braid Roger created. It’s loose and there are stray hairs everywhere. Also, there are no clips left to hold it together, so the end just slowly frays out.

But still, for a first try…

“So”, Roger asks. “ How did it turn out? How do I look?”

“Ehhhh…” Freddie scrunches up his nose while Roger cranes his neck trying to see the back of his head in the mirror. “Manly”, he ventures.

“Uh-huh.” Roger doesn’t sound convinced.

“Wait.” Freddie gets the camera and snaps a picture.

“Hmm, thing is, I sort of know what you mean.” Roger scrutinises the polaroid as it is developing. “No girl would ever fuck this up so badly.”

Freddie swats his shoulder playfully, then nods at the camera. “Let’s get a picture of us both.”

Roger comes to stand next to him, slinging his arm around Freddie’s shoulders. It takes a bit of jostling, but on the third attempt, they finally snap a pic that has both their faces and at least a little bit of their braids in focus.

“Tell you what”, Freddie says. “Your first _two_ rounds are on me if-”

“You’ve got plans for tonight, haven’t you, Fred? That makes four rounds already!”

“First two rounds on me”, he repeats, “If you wear the braid down to the pub.”

Roger squints at him, his expression both amused and belligerent. But then he shakes his head. “Nah”, he says and reaches back to pull the strands loose. “Wouldn’t want to bankrupt you”, he says lightly.

“Hah!” In fact, Freddie could scrape together just enough small change to cover their rounds. But he doesn’t press the point.

“Hey, er.” Roger picks up the picture and smiles softly at it. “Maybe don’t show the others”, he says and playfully nudges Freddie’s side. “They think we’re a couple of old queens as it is.”

“Sure”, Freddie says. Some of the guys do talk like that. Not that it bothers him very much. There’s nothing to it after all. They’re just jealous that he and Roger are the ones turning all the heads when they walk into a pub. But Roger’s already endured enough ribbing due to his delicate looks. The last thing he needs is a picture of him in braids making the rounds.

Instead of pinning it to the fridge as he usually would have done, it goes straight into the (already overflowing) box of photographs under the dresser.

“Want to get started on your assignment then?” Roger looks a bit contrite, like he’s worried Freddie might be offended. As if Freddie had anything to be offended about.

Freddie plops down on his desk chair and takes up a pen listlessly. He’s not in the mood to finish this right now. Maybe they can just go for drinks and he’ll do it later. It’s not like he’s got the money for a proper bender anyway.

“Tell you what”, Roger says. “You finish the drawing so we can get to the pub in time.”

Freddie whines and lets his head plop down on the desk. How can something that filled him with excitement and pride (and, alright frustration as well) just an hour ago suddenly appear so dull and drab?

“You finish the drawing”, Roger repeats and steps behind him. A light hand lands on Freddie’s head, filling him with anticipatory shivers, “and I make sure your hair looks presentable.”

As the document clip is released with the slightest tug, the first cascade of blissful tingles runs down Freddie’s spine.

**Author's Note:**

> Raymond “Teasy Weasy” Bessone was a British star hairdresser in the mid-20th century. You can watch him [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZRrIG2QP9o), presenting fashionable 1956 two tone hairstyles (Back)
> 
> Well, that was not my usual fare. Tell me what you think (gently and kindly 😊)


End file.
